


The '68 Charger and a 7-Up Bottle

by compo67



Series: Chicago Verse [101]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Sam, Coming Untouched, Established Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Lawyer Sam, M/M, Marking, Mechanic Dean, Multiple Orgasms, Old Married Couple, POV Sam Winchester, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Series, Psychic Bond, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, Schmoop, Sex on a Car, Top Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-24
Updated: 2016-08-24
Packaged: 2018-08-10 18:12:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7855831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam wanders into the garage, where Dean's working on a car and asking about a vase.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The '68 Charger and a 7-Up Bottle

 

“Sam, I can’t find a vase.”

“What do you need a vase for?” 

“Stuff that’s none of your beeswax.” 

“Then you get no vase.”

“You… holy fuck.”

“What?” 

“You’re… in the garage.” 

“I am capable of being in the garage.”

“I know, but you’re in here willingly.” 

“I figured you might want company. For… whatever it is you do in here.”

“Hmm.”

“Uh huh.”

“There’s something suspicious about this.”

“You’re such an old man. I just wanted to keep you company.”

“Well, just don’t try to talk your way into my will to steal my estate while you’re here.”

“I keep telling you to stop watching soaps when I’m not here.”

“Why the hell shouldn’t I watch what I want?” 

“Because they’ll rot your brain.” 

“Like those rocks in your office are doing much for yours.”

“They’re called books.”

“I know what they’re called.”

“What are you working on?”

“Changing the oil in Luis’ car.” 

“He finally let you?”

“He’s seventy-some years old, his wife made him.”

“Good for her. What kind of car is this?”

“She’s a ‘68 Charger.” 

“A Dodge?”

“Yep. Second generation.”

“Yeah?”

“Well, ‘68 is the year she was redesigned with a double-diamond coke bottle profile. See these curves around the front fenders? And here, by the rear quarter panels. They wanted her to look different from Dodge Coronet models, but similar to Pontiac GTOs.” 

“...Oh.”

“You can tell me to shut up.”

“I asked for a reason. And besides, if I told you to shut up, it’s not like you would.”

“You have the opportunity though, that’s what counts.”

“Sure it does.”

“I’m just changing her oil. No big deal.”

“Not to you.”

“I’ve offered to teach you. There’s gotta be some room in that big head of yours to learn.”

“Nope. Not anymore. Once I learned nonprofit law and how to advise organizations on their legal and tax obligations, how to form and manage a board of directors, how to appoint officers, and how to keep track of all necessary state and federal documentation, all for three hundred dollars an hour, that was it for the space in my head.”

“...smart ass, college boy.”

“Fine ass mechanic.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“To what do I owe this compliment? I mean, I agree, you know.”

“Just shut up and change the oil.”

“Ahh. This gets you hot.”

“Only if you shut your mouth and stop talking.”

“You were begging me to talk about the car two minutes ago.”

“First, it was hardly begging. Second, must have been the fumes in here.”

“You can’t just give me a compliment, can you?”

“Dean, I just did. What you want is an explanation for the compliment and I’m not willing to divulge.”

“So you just want me to be your eye candy?”

“Yes.”

“How the tables have turned.”

“You’re still talking.”

“Oh, so sorry. What if I hold the funnel like this? Does that help?”

“...”

“Or if I pose like this, with my leg kind of, up, right… here?” 

“...”

“Oh, oh, or maybe leaning… yeah… leaning forward just… and put my arm back…”

“If you throw your back out, I’m not helping you.”

“That’s okay. I’ll tell the paramedics I was just trying to play sexy mechanic for my husband.”

“You wouldn’t even be able to call them if you threw your back out.”

“Not by phone. No, I’d use my power to communicate with birds to get help.”

“Dean.”

“Sam.”

“Your ass looks great in those jeans.”

“...well, uh, they’re my favorite pair.”

“And that shirt shows off your arms.”

“I… it’s just a black shirt.”

“And I know you wore those Tommy boxer briefs I bought you.”

“Th-they’re comfy.”

“Every time you lean over the hood, I think about the angle of your cock in those briefs.” 

“Wha…”

“And the greasier your hands get, the more I want them on me.”

“...”

“When you lean away from the car, the muscles in your back squeeze and your thighs tighten.”

“Sam.”

“And I just wonder.”

“...”

“If you could fuck me like the way you work on cars.” 

The only appeal cars have held have been the way Dean runs his hands over them. Long, thick, firm fingers can graze a sleeping, classic beauty covered in rust and grime and curling vines and treat her the same as a model rolling off the Detroit line.

It’s all vacuum operated cover replacing the electric motor rotating headlights. The previous full-width taillights replaced with dual circular units, with dual scallops added to the doors and hood. Over Sam’s clean throat, the press of greased, territorial fingertips, and inside, the interior fixed with a conventional rear seat replacing the folding bucket seat design. The blunt force of their hips slamming against the now closed hood, crushed with the overpowering, heady smell of leather, oil, and aftershave. Breath swallowed in a rough clash of teeth and lips, the Charger speaks underneath them and the airwaves.

_ Tachometer optional, not standard. _

_ Electroluminescent gauges disappeared in favor of a conventional design. _

Hard, hot, and demanding, Dean tilts his hips and bears down against Sam--denim and fabric separating them still--with the exact angle it takes to locate a car’s circular air filter. Change the oil, might as well change the air filter. Clean. Fresh. Ready. Well-maintained. And it shows. 

Sam indulges. He accepts every indentation of teeth, fingers, and hips. His skin depresses underneath every added pressure and bruises form. Wrapped around the inviting slope of Dean’s lower back, Sam squeezes his thighs and  _ wants _ . 

_ The standard engine was the 318 cu in (5.2L) 2-bbl V8, but they went with a 225 cu in (3.7L) slant six. A new high-performance package was added, the R/T, and it came standard with the ‘67 440 Magnum, but the 426 Hemi was optional. _

Changing the oil means draining the old to make way for the new. Dean kisses Sam--starved, predatory, and smouldering. The phrasing of his lips, the intonation of his hips, and the demands his teeth lay into Sam’s bottom lip draws them close, quick and desperate. 

Dean’s hands stay on Sam. 

Where they belong.

Without needing to search for it, Sam reveals a packet of lube in his right hand.

The question of how isn’t important, because Dean answers it right away--Sam will have to help himself. If he wants this, he’ll have to work for it. Earn it. No one takes a classic car to a hack working out of a Jiffy Lube; they take them to a professional, someone who can preserve the integrity of an engine’s roar. 

Zip. 

Drag. 

Slip. 

Toss. 

Open. 

Definite, but neither threatening nor oppressive, Dean secures his hands over Sam’s hips. Dean’s fingertips slip, oiled and slick, but the tip of his cock, shined with lube, never falters as Sam guides it, aims it. Penetrating himself, Sam wields control, the ring of muscle on fire from the decadent lack of prep and just slightly insufficient amount of lube. Better for a burn. Better for the deep, intense feel of Dean’s cock sliding in, twitching, and fattening up. 

_ The R/T package delivered massive 11-inch drum brakes, and a class-leading engine. It outshone the best GTO at 375 horsepower and 480 pound-feet. Standard. On every R/T. _

Sam digs his fingers into the broad, muscled plane of Dean’s back. He lets out a noise representative to the ease of which his legs spread open further. Dean downshifts into second gear and pushes Sam to lie flat on the hood. He knows exactly what to do to Sam, how to overwhelm him, how to bring him back.

_ No bounce to this body; the Charger’s R/T gives it a firm ride, not like coil-sprung GM shit.  _

Their muscles tight, sweat and oil between them, insatiable acceleration takes over. 

Confident, Dean’s gripping growls and rumbles in the back of his throat fuel the movements of his hips. He pulls out, half as slow, and rocks back in twice as rough. Pounding, pushing, driving into Sam, the tip of his cock fucks against the bundle of nerves that makes Sam cry out and plead for more. More, more, more, harder, harder, harder, faster, faster, more, more, more. 

_ 0-60 mph in 6.5 seconds. 3-speed automatic RWD. Control arms, torsion bars, anti-roll bar.  _

_ Live axle. Leaf springs. 5.7 Hemi.  _

_ Identify an original: fifth digit in the VIN. 225 Slant six = B. Only 904 built.  _

_ Beautiful. _

_ Radical _ .

_ Classic.  _

Sam gasps.

Impact after impact after impact from the thick, heavy weight of Dean’s cock wrenches out a scream and a herald from Sam. 

It’s more than a drain and fill.

It’s intimate knowledge of the parts that make up the whole. The whole that cannot exist without the parts. The specs, the knowledge, the patience, and the reverence for machinery and ingenuity. 

It’s the sight of Dean slamming into him as they fuck on the hood of a car. The detail of Dean’s muscular thighs. The drink of the way his shirt clings to his chest and highlights the strength in his arms. The shot of deep, hard, surging satisfaction from the onetwothreeonetwotwothreethreethree of thrusting. 

Sam’s flushed, leaking cock gives a single warning. 

Dean catches it.

And hauls Sam’s hips up, extending the curve of his spine. 

Just so he can Sam come. 

Come all over his own face. 

Stripes of come spurt out, messy and thick. The first one lands on Sam’s chin, lapping his bottom lip. Sam opens his mouth. The second spurt hits home. Bitter. Salty. Sweet. 

He comes over the surge and swell of Dean’s cock buried inside him. 

Oil and lube and sweat mixed with come. Completely untouched, Sam makes a mess of his face and throat. His eyes roll back after a second’s pause--when Dean picks up and refuses to stop. The shock absorbers squeak. The hood of the car complains from their combined weight and movement. Sam feels himself and Dean reach the very edge of capacity for air. It’s not enough. Not enough. Always more, more, more, threefourfivesixseveneight…

Dean comes inside Sam, floods him. 

Sam clenches every muscle in his body, focusing on the space Dean’s cock fills, and feels his own cock respond yet again. 

It’s the rumble of a great machine.

The mystery of manufactured parts.

And the memory of how. 

Breathless minutes pass over them, unnoticed. Smiles keep their attention. Sam looks up and into familiar green eyes. Having sex on the hood of a car isn’t exactly comfortable. Or entirely sanitary. The second Sam can, he’s going to hobble inside, Google how to get car oil out of his hair, and take a long, hot shower. He’ll let Dean get back to the Charger soon.

For now, this is good. 

Dean laughs and rests against Sam, tired from holding himself up. 

Sam traces shapes over Dean’s back. 

“Still,” Dean mumbles, “need a vase.”

“I lent it to Juana.” 

“Dammit.”

“We have a 7-Up bottle.” 

“Then it’s your fault.”

“What’s my fault?” 

“That the flowers I bought you look tacky as fuck in a 7-Up bottle.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> some of this story is true. like me buying flowers for myself but not finding a vase to put them in, so i cut the top off of a 7-up bottle and made my own vase. i may or may not have also seen Sam and Dean fucking. but you know, i'll let you decide what's truth. ;)
> 
> random drabble and a visit with these two! i hope y'all enjoy! comments are love! <3


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